


Cupcakes

by Rosetta (ARollingStone), Stuffy (HarveyDangerfield)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bottom Ford, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Play, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Stuffing, Subspace, Top Stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 15:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17490707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARollingStone/pseuds/Rosetta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/Stuffy
Summary: Mabel left too many cupcakes with her grunkles, and while Stan has no problem at all eating them, Ford's intense self control requires a little bit more persuasion to let him indulge.





	Cupcakes

**Author's Note:**

> if you thought you saw the last of me writing self-indulgent stuffing kink with the stans you got another thing coming
> 
> mind the tags! there is HEAVY dom/sub consent play in this one and very rough treatment
> 
> written with my spouse <3

Ford had literally begged Mabel not to leave the cupcakes with them when she ran the circuit to all of her friends, leaving them with leftovers after her bake sale. She'd grossly overestimated how many she would need, and even with splitting up the leftovers between Gideon, Wendy, Soos, Candy and Grenda, there were still _fifty_ of them left at the house. Half a dozen of them had been hoovered up by Stan almost instantly before Ford managed to herd him out of the kitchen with a threat not to make dinner if Stan was so insistent on ruining his appetite.

 

The cupcakes _taunt_ him as he puts together a low-calorie veggie stir fry for the two of them, just _sitting_ there in all their glory, bright wrappers tantalizing him, generous frosting piped on lovingly by hand, topped with sprinkles... well, if Stan could eat six of them and still have room, surely Ford could eat just _one._ Guilt prevents him from eating a whole one, however. He lamely cuts one of them in half, cake frosting and all, and like a raccoon hunched over a garbage can, he guiltily eats half a cupcake. It's exactly as heavenly as he remembers, despite it being literal _decades_ since he's had a cupcake, and he can't help the quiet whimper that leaves him unbidden at the flavor and texture. It's like eating an orgasm.

 

Stan's grumbling stomach had brought him wandering back into the kitchen--but he stops dead where he is, watching Ford hunched over the sink, stuffing _something_ into his mouth, which Stan gleans is half a cupcake, judging by the sad other-half, neatly split in two and sitting miserably on the counter, its frosting practically melting onto the wooden counter top.

 

Standing there, he debates for a long time whether he should just walk away and leave Ford to his devices, but there's a sad pang in his heart as he remembers his brother, years younger, happily eating cake on his birthday when they were kids, without worrying over whether he'd be in good enough shape to ward off the next Big Bad. That hurt causes Stan's brows to furrow, and he walks nonchalantly to the fridge, opening it up to peer inside with no real direction or purpose for doing so. It's just a backdrop for his thoughts, whirring a mile a minute as he considers his plan carefully.

 

"Whatcha makin'?" He asks casually, deciding on a glass of orange juice--well, that is, _just_ orange juice. Stan pulls the lid off and chugs straight out of the jug, knowing _full well_ it annoys Ford.

 

Ford's hasty job of cleaning himself of crumbs couldn't come fast enough, and he turns back to the stove, already blushing. Was he caught? Would it _matter_ if he was caught? He's a damn adult, and Stan would be a hypocrite if he said a word... why is he so _embarrassed,_ considering Stan inhaled six of them in under five minutes like he was trying to prove a point.

 

"Stir fry," he answers, his voice slightly thick with frosting, and he clears his throat, disguising the gesture as getting Stan's attention when he reaches over his head into the cabinet to grab a glass, handing it over to him without a word.

 

Stan smacks his lips and looks down at the glass flatly. He takes another drink from the jug. "So, stir fry, huh? Sounds good . . ." Casually, he moves over to the counter where Ford had been standing, just near the sink where the fallen, half a cupcake is sitting, just asking to be eaten. Stan picks at one of his back molars with his tongue, and freeing the spinach or whatever it is from his tooth, he takes _another drink_ from the jug and turns back to Ford, who's still holding out the glass with a more insistent expression now. "You gonna eat the rest of that?"

 

"No," Ford says, looking back at the frying pan in front of him after setting the glass down in front of Stan on the counter with a slightly too-loud clink.

 

Stan laughs under his breath, and takes another drink before setting the jug down. He bites his lip, wondering if he should really press it, but one look at Ford's misery as he angrily stirs the vegetables in the wok sets it in stone in his heart. It needs to be done. "C'mon, Sixer you love sweets. One cupcake ain't gonna kill ya."

 

"I already had half," Ford says like it's _shameful,_ his cheeks and ears visibly lighting up red. "I don't want to ruin my appetite." oh, but he looks so desperately close to giving in. Stan can see the twinkle of need in his eye, the same sort of silent challenge he's always issued Stan when he's too proud or too scared or too ashamed to ask for something directly.

 

Stan licks the inside of his cheek and gives a shrug, wearing a careless expression--like he could give a crap if Ford eats the cupcake or not. Capping the jug of orange juice, he carries it back to the fridge and lets Ford go back to cooking.

 

Ford exhales shakily once Stan gives him some space, his muscles all unbunching. He keeps glancing beside him at the other half of the cupcake as he stirs the vegetables around in the wok, and then sets the lid on top to let it steam on a low heat. He looks again at the forlorn half of the cupcake, and for a moment it looks like he'll give in, but he shakes his head and turns away from it to instead start measuring out rice.

 

Stan actually leaves the room for a bit, giving Ford the false sense that he's not taking the bait, which suits him just fine. Walking into the hall, Stan gives himself a little pep talk, to get out of his own head a little, trying to erase that depressing feeling that Ford's lost part of his youth, just so he's not stuck in his own mind and unable to guide the situation. Clear headed, he returns to the kitchen and slips up behind Ford, just as he's topping off the water in the rice cooker, his heavy head resting on his brother's shoulder, big hands circling around to lay flat over his hard abs. He runs those hands up and down, massaging over Ford's ribs and back down near his pelvic bone, not dipping to stroke his cock, but teasing at it for certain.

 

"Ford . . ." that smoky baritone grates heavy against his ear, breath hot on his neck. "I got an idea . . . how about you finish that cupcake and I'll go down on ya before dinner. How's that sound?"

 

Ford, who had felt the electricity in the room zing up into his stomach as soon as he heard Stan enter the room a second time behind him, has gone rigid with his brother pressed up behind him. Arousal takes a sharp stab down into his lower belly and his mouth has gone suddenly dry as he fights for good sense with the combination of Stan's great big hands pawing at him and his voice vibrating down the side of his neck. He swallows audibly, and leans slightly back into Stan's chest, comforted by the fact that his twin will take charge of the situation when Ford is unable to. This is exactly what safewords are for, after all-- though Ford has literally never needed to use his, it's comforting to know that it's there, and that Stan would stop... and that in absence of it, Stan is free to keep pushing and pushing and _pushing._

 

"I said no, Stanley," he says, though there's a fine tremble in his voice as he closes the rice cooker and sets the timer. "I don't need it."

 

"What if I said yes?" Stan's voice takes on a darker edge, shifting into something more domineering and commanding, bossy in a way but that voice is fit with deadly teeth that know just where to bite to get a reaction from Ford. "What if I said you didn't have a choice . . .?"

 

Stan can _feel_ the way Ford's stomach clenches under his sweater. His lips part slightly, gulping for air and trying to encourage saliva back into his dry mouth. "You can't make me," he says, the muscles in his back and arms flexing, trembling, desperate, hungry. _Challenging._

 

Stan reaches around and shuts the burner under the wok off, and pulls the plug on the rice cooker, casually and slowly. As he moves, his tummy rubs against Ford's back, deep chest pressed against his shoulders--then all the soft motions are gone, and Stan grabs him by the wrist, and the back of his neck, even with just a bit of his strength, it's enough to cause pins and needles in Ford's arm as he twists it behind his back and Stan practically kicks him toward the sink where the cupcake is sitting.

 

"You eat it, or I'm gonna rub your face in it." His voice growls through clenched teeth. "Don't fuckin' test me, Sixer. I got your number."

 

A hard flush of arousal shoots through Ford so hard he goes _dizzy_ as his stomach hits the counter and his face is almost smashed into the remaining half of the cupcake. His thighs tremble and he breathes out harshly against the counter, gulping thickly. He moans softly, just at the very concept of being held down like this and forced to eat something he can't bring himself to eat on his own. He casts a heated look back over his shoulder at Stan, a quiet, wordless thank-you, before he reaches up with the other hand not twisted behind his back to grab the remaining cupcake.

 

He gives out involuntary _sinful_ moans as he bites into the other half of the treat, his cock tenting the front of his slacks so hard it hurts. Somehow it tastes even better now that he's being forced to eat it "against his will," the guilt and temptation have been lifted off his shoulders by Stan taking responsibility for his actions in this way, bypassing Ford's self control and iron will by force in the best way possible. Even so, bent over the counter like a back room whore, Ford manages not to make a mess, taking care to avoid spilling crumbs or frosting, and he balls the cupcake wrapper in his hand when he's finished, twisting his head as far as he can with Stan's grip on his neck, panting as he casts a glance behind him. "Satisfied?"

 

Stan's nostrils flare as his own cock throbs hard against his thigh, jerking to life and bulging out the front of his jeans, but he ignores it and the dizziness that soars between his ears, and instead, takes a deep breath. Hand still at the back of his neck, he relents on Ford's arm, but his fist immediately curls into his belt at the base of his spine and he practically bends Ford backwards in half with the brute force that he exerts snapping him upright. He doesn't give him a minute to breathe--instead, he slams him down into the nearest chair and points a harsh finger in his face,

 

"You get up, I'm gonna hit ya so hard you're gonna see stars." And with that, he turns his back and begins piling cupcakes onto one of the serving platters Mabel had left out--he's not even counting, just piling them together, some tipping heavy frosting onto the others and when he's satisfied with the sticky feast, Stan brings it back over to the table and sets it down heavily in front of Ford. "You're gonna eat these. All of them."

 

Ford's mind is working a mile a minute as he watches Stan collect the cupcakes, but when he sets them down and issues his command, Ford's eyes bulge almost out of his head. "I'm _what?"_ he blurts, already forgetting his order and trying to stand up in shock. Being ordered to eat half of a cupcake is one thing, but there's at least thirty there-- possibly more.

 

 **"Sit down."** Stan orders, just as Ford's ass leaves the chair even an inch. "Don't make me hit ya, Sixer . . . ya know I hate messin' up your face."

 

Ford sits immediately. As tempting as the idea of being hit is, when Stanley boxes him in the head it usually puts him in a comfortable half-concussed state where he loses most of his motor functions and just rides out whatever Stan has in store for him. But in this case... the temptation of being forced to eat more cupcakes than Ford would allow himself in a _year_ has him shivering and obedient. He can't eat any cupcakes if he can't even sit upright. "I can't eat that many," he gasps out, _begging_ for Stan to insist he can.

 

Stan licks the corner of his lips and gives Ford a tired look, "Your cock says otherwise."

 

Ford looks down between his legs, like he's noticing for the first time he even _has_ a cock, and sure enough the front of his slacks are tented out so far it looks like he's trying to smuggle a christmas tree. He swallows hard and looks back up at Stan, his breath coming in heavier and deeper. "What'll you do if I don't?"

 

"What'll I do if you don't?" Stan asks, his voice raising in octave, like a mother asking her child to rethink a stupid decision. It's as derisive as the way his eyebrows lift in mock concern, but the furrow immediately into a dangerous frown, his mouth drawing into a thin line that pulls the jagged scar on his chin tight and red. "If ya don't, I'm gonna tie ya up and put ya in the closet and let ya squirm out some relief."

 

Fuck. He knows Stan will do it, too, he's done it before. Ford could have gotten out of the bonds in a second if he wanted to, but playing along with it and waiting for Stan to come back for him (almost an hour later) was sweet, horrible torture. He shivers again and gulps thickly, looking back at the cupcakes on the table before cautiously reaching out for one. He never would have allowed himself two cupcakes in one day, let alone however many Stan has collected here. He's already thinking about how hard he's going to have to work all of this off when he's done, his mind visibly working over the numbers and defeating the entire purpose of the game they're playing as he shakily unwraps the second treat, swallowing guiltily as saliva builds in his mouth from anticipation.

 

"I can see you second guessin' it . . ." Stan takes the cupcake from him, and picks up the platter. "Grab the milk, and follow me into the livin' room." He knows Ford will comply, so he just leaves and when his brother appears in the living room, Stan is sitting in his big, comfortable chair, the plate of cupcakes sitting on the T-Rex skull beside it, taunting him. The matching, yellow plaid ottoman is pulled away from the couch, and sitting in front of the chair, pulled up right against it, Stan's legs splayed easily around it, his cock visibly straining at his jeans. "Sit down--face away from me." When Ford complies, Stan takes the jug away from him and sets it down for now, and he adjusts his brother so his back is flush against his chest and his big, round tummy. The sound of a cupcake being unwrapped greets his ears, then one of the delicately decorated desserts is being offered to him, one hand resting gently on Ford's shoulder. "Eat."

 

Oh, this is easier. Laying back against Stan in that comfy chair, being fed by hand-- it's not Ford's fault he's eating cupcakes, now. Stan's feeding them to him, he's _making_ him. The rest of the thoughts fuzz out in his brain as soon as the first zing of sugar touches his tongue, and dinner is completely forgotten as he opens his mouth to take a bite. His eyes flutter half-closed as he eats, taking big and frankly messy bites, sprinkles and crumbs falling down his chest and into his lap, where his hands grip the fabric of his slacks over his thighs, breathing heavily through his nose. The very concept of actively working against his self control in order to indulge in two cupcakes has his cock so hard it hurts, but he keeps his hands politely in place until Stan tells him he can touch himself. Instead he just opens his mouth for another bite and another, until every sticky, sweet bite is consumed and he swallows down the last crumb, feeling absolutely dizzy with lust as he rests his head back against Stan's shoulder.

 

"That wasn't so hard, huh?" Stan says in a low, gruff purr. He leans in and presses a kiss to Ford's slack mouth, tasting cake and sweet icing, his hand edges over his brother's stomach, petting him in firm strokes, slipping close to his beltline now and again, fingers dipping down into the waistband of his slacks, but never sealing the deal. After kissing the flavor out of his mouth, he unwraps another cupcake--he'd counted while Ford was away, there's thirty in all, and owing that it might get a little cloying, they have the milk to fall back on when he needs a break to lighten up the heaviness of the sweets.

 

He presents the cupcake, "Let's do another one. That second one was so good, wasn't it?" Stan presses his mouth right against Ford's ear, his voice rumbles all the way down to his toes, shaking him like an earthquake. "A third won't hurt--you're a machine, you're not even gonna feel this. C'mon what's the harm? It tastes _so_ good."

 

Ford's ability to think is completely shattered by that commanding growl, and he opens his mouth obediently for the next bite. His sweet tooth gets the better of him and he groans openly as the sugar rushes to his brain, deepening the haze and fuzz surrounding his thought center, clouding it away from his primal lizard brain that tells him to _eat._ His cheeks heat up bright red, warm and burning with pleasure and desire as he takes huge bites of the fluffy cake, licking frosting from his lips between bites He barely chews, the cake is so moist and soft that it just takes a couple soft squishes with his tongue before he can swallow bites big enough that they make his throat ripple.

 

Old habits die hard, his days of eating like a fucking snake have afforded him the ability to this day to swallow very, very large bites. With three cupcakes gone Ford is starting to feel properly drugged out on sugar, panting open-mouthed and moaning for no reason other than the sheer indulgence of it as he leans his full weight into Stanley.

 

And Stan is all too happy to feed him another cupcake--at this point, Ford is putty in his hand, easily moulded to suit his purposes--but this isn't about Stanley's control over Ford, it never has been. As he watches his brother devour another cake, a swell of pride fills his stomach, a brilliant, burning joy clutching his heart when Ford takes the next bite, and the next until the th cupcake's gone and he's eating another right out of his hand. This is about Ford letting go sometimes.

 

Sure, Stan isn't going to insist that he _ruins_ his life eating junk food, but for just once, it's nice to see him let go and accept a little happiness, a little brightness into his rigorous, strict schedule. When Ford's brain shuts off, and he's eating out of Stanley's hand, he knows he's doing the right thing. Half a dozen cupcakes in, and Stan leans down again, capturing Ford's slack lips on his own, kissing him deeply, licking the frosting away from the corners of his mouth. When the kiss is broken, he continues to rub along Ford's hard belly, in part trying to discern any noticeable difference, but mostly to soothe away any creeping anxiety after he's slammed down six cupcakes, and try to keep him grounded.

 

"You're doin' so good Stanford." He grumbles lovingly, kissing the shell of his ear. "How do ya feel?"

 

"Mmmgh..." Ford mumbles out an incoherent noise, trying to will his slack, sticky throat to cooperate enough to work words out through his mouth. He's not sure how to put words into how he's feeling. He feels free, he feels relaxed, comfortable, the burden of responsibility and consequence for his actions have been lifted off his shoulders, for once even in just this shallow moment of pleasure, Ford doesn't have to be or do or say _anything._ For once he can just enjoy himself for enjoyment's sake, he doesn't have to make concessions or justify himself or 'make up for it' later. No bartering, no guilt, no promises to pay it back. He can just be. What he finally settles on is a thickly murmured, "Safe."

 

Stan gives a delighted little chuckle against his ear and he kisses him again. "That's a pretty high compliment." He glances away, "Do you want another cupcake, or do ya think you could use somethin' to drink?"

 

"Drink," Ford says, his voice sticking in his throat and clicking as an air bubble unsticks between the frosting coating his throat. He opens his mouth obediently when Stan lifts the jug of milk to it, his eyes drifting closed as he takes several long, deep swallows. The silky glide of the milk is heavenly after so much thick frosting and heavy cake, and only after nearly a solid minute of drinking does he make a sound for Stan to set it aside. He drops his head back against Stan's shoulder, panting to catch his breath after such a long, satisfying chug, and Stan's hand on his belly feels a little gurgle inside before a big air bubble comes up Ford's throat in a deep belch, the kind he would normally politely diffuse with a fist.

 

Seeing and _hearing_ his brother let go like that has Stanley's cock surging with need. He gives a heavy breath out, through his nose and sets the jug aside, sloshing some of it onto his hand in the process, but he doesn't care in the slightest. Wiping his arm off on the side of the chair, he licks his lips and gives Ford a milky kiss, then reaches for another cupcake. The wrappers, he just tosses on the floor next to the chair where they're accumulating in front of the skull like a graveyard of fallen soldiers. There's a pretty, bright pile of them now, and crumpled up and glinting in the dull light from the fish tank.

 

Stan feeds him another couple, Ford chewing mechanically, though just barely, swallowing down whole chunks of cake like some kind of lizard man. The thick swallows, the wet sounds of his chewing, are putting Stan on edge in the best way, his breathing is heavy against Ford's back, and he's not ashamed of the heavy line of his cock digging into his brother's ass. If any of it's registered by Ford as he chews and swallows, Stan isn't sure. He just watches reverently as his tongue works out of his mouth to swipe heavy cream off the top of some of the cakes, his mouth making love to the dessert in a way that would make the Pope blush ; and likewise, Stan can feel his tummy tightening with each addition, just barely, and heavy gurgles rumble against the open palm of his hand, fueling Stanley to keep the food and drinks coming.

 

Ten cupcakes down, just a third of the way into the pile, and Ford is feeling incredibly satisfied. His belly is full and warm, curved out just slightly from his body in a way that nobody would be able to tell if they hadn't been watching the whole time like Stanley. Ford's body is heavy and relaxed against Stan's chest, his head tipped back and his expression completely blissed out. Stan's seen this before, it's far from the first time he's ever sub dropped Ford, but he's never done it with nothing but _cupcakes_ before.

 

"More," Ford whispers just as Stan was starting to second guess whether he should keep pushing Ford-- and that's all the proof he needs that they're on the right track. He gladly presents another cupcake to his dazed brother, watching him take bites just as big as the first couple of cakes. It seems that quantity has not put a damper on his enthusiasm, and despite the tight, shallow curve of his belly, he's intent on eating with the same amount of gusto as he'd started with. His hands are curled tightly in the fabric of his slacks as he finishes off cupcakes 11 and 12, officially sealing a full dozen inside his stomach like it's not even a Thing. Despite his constant teasing and good-natured ribbing that Stan has the unhealthy eating habits between the two of them, Stan is pretty sure that his brother just devoured a dozen cupcakes with more speed and decorum than Stanley ever could, even with professional training.

 

He admires him with reverence, unwrapping another cupcake, the fourteenth now, they're already steadily climbing toward another dozen. As Ford eats it obediently from his fingers, Stan uses his other hand to rake curly hair back from his hairline, and peppers soft kisses to his forehead and ear now and again, just letting Ford float on the sugar high he has going on. After he's eaten another two, and his mouth is thoroughly sticky and heavy with frosting, Stan tips the jug against his lips again, milk cutting through the cloying, syrupy film at the back of his throat, providing some relief to his lips; but even moreso . . . it fills all the empty spaces between those cupcakes sitting heavily in his gut. He pulls the jug away only when Ford refuses to drink anymore, and he sets it down again--his hands find his stomach, rubbing in firm circles, rucking up his sweater.

 

Even the slight curve of his belly makes Stan's heart race, and he pulls a heavy breath through his nose, exhaling hotly against Ford's ear, "You're gonna be so big . . ." he nibbles against his skin and nuzzles his nose up against Ford's soft hair. "God Stanford your stomach--"

 

Ford bites his lip, shivering slightly when the cool air of the living room touches the superheated skin of his belly. Swallowing hard, he tips his head away to expose his neck for more affection, each little nip and kiss shooting down to his cock like a live wire, bright and hot and heavy. He's not aching yet, not quite desperate, he's just past the edge of overfull, comfortable and heavy and tight and warm and feeling completely safe and cared for. His belly is gurgling away, churning pleasantly around the load of sugar and carbs in his gut, the curve rising and falling lightly with his deep, relaxed breaths. He whimpers as a slight cramp shoots down the line of his slacks, cutting slightly into the lowest curve of his tummy, and he gulps thickly as he turns his head to catch a lazy kiss from Stan's mouth.

 

"More," he gasps, his cock visibly jumping in his pants as he says it.

 

"You don't need a break after all that?" Stan asks, kissing lazily over his neck. "Are you sure?"

 

He squirms slightly, looking like he's second guessing himself for a moment, but then he murmurs, "Please, Stanley... more."

 

He peels back the paper of another cupcake, and feeds it to Ford, still peppering slow, purposeful kisses against his skin, his hand just making circuits on his stuffed belly. It's awhile yet before they're done, but Stan has no doubt in his mind that his brother will finish every last cupcake on that platter--he's seen him put away food before, he can eat like a snake, storing up a huge meal like it's his last. Another few disappear--fifteen and sixteen, seventeen and eighteen.

 

Approaching twenty, he can hear Stanford panting for air, but that's largely owed the tent in his pants more than the weight in his stomach--and Stan considers, as he's unwrapping another cupcake and feeding it to him, that maybe he should relief him just a little, the growing dot of precome at the seam of his slacks is making his mouth water just looking at it. So while Ford is busy plowing through another cake, Stan reaches down and pops the buckle of his belt, and fiddling with the zipper until he can free up some space for him, just so his cock isn't rubbing insistently against the seam of his pants.

 

"Just ten more left." Stan purrs against his ear, running his fingers up and down Ford's stomach, holding the twentieth cupcake up to his lips, awaiting a bite. "Think you can do it?"

 

Ford answers as usual with action first, taking a healthy bite from the cake and barely chewing before he swallows thickly. He's in charge of the milk himself now, with one of Stan's hands feeding him and the other petting over his stomach. He turns his head away to wash the bite down with a gulp of milk-- half of the gallon gone by now. Ford's belly is heavy and hard, arching off his body in a firm curve that bows his back out, conforming to the shape of Stan's belly behind him.

 

"I can do it," he gasps out and then takes another bite, his other hand still white-knuckling the material of his slacks as he fights the urge to touch himself. His cock has arched out hard between the folds of his open fly, tenting out in a hard line against his briefs, but he still doesn't touch himself. He has to wash down each bite with a swallow of milk now, which helps him power through the stickiness, but doesn't help the slowly growing tightness of his stomach.

 

"Good, let's get started on the rest of these--and I want that milk gone by the time we're done, so you better be swiggin' it, Sixer or I'm gonna make ya chug it when ya finish these." The wide flat of Stan's hand feels like heaven on his tight stomach--it does the trick to keep the cramps at bay, leaving Ford feeling dizzyingly full. It's a little tricky to unwrap cupcakes with one hand, but with the aid of his teeth, Stan gets the job done, and he feeds them easily to his brother, never relenting on the smooth rub of his hand over tightly stretched abs. The arc of his brother's cock keeps drawing his eyes down while Ford is stuffing his face with cake. Honestly, he could suck him off while he eats the rest of those cupcakes, but he keeps that idea to himself, just a little fantasy as Ford works on another couple of cupcakes.

 

 "If you eat all of these, I'll reward ya so good, Stanford." He unwraps another cake and instead of offering it to him, he presses the edge against Ford's lips until he complies and opens his mouth--at which point, Stan crams the whole thing into his mouth, forcing him to chew quickly, and breathe through his nose over a mouthful of cream and heavy, moist cake. "When you're done with these . . . I'm gonna fill ya up the rest of the way with my cock. How's that sound?"

 

Ford moans desperately, gulping the cake down in too-big bites that stretch and hurt his throat. His lips and chin are sticky with sugar, and effort to choke down an entire cupcake nearly whole has his stomach straining and creaking, a cramp shooting through the stretched muscle as he gulps down bulging mouthfuls. Gasping when his mouth is finally clear he raises the milk for several long pulls, dropping it again only when his stomach wails in protest.

 

Dropping his head back against Stan's shoulder he pants with his mouth hanging open, his cock spurting a little in his briefs just at the pleasure of being so completely packed full of, essentially, _garbage._ The process of getting so full has been incredible, a dizzying mix of pleasure and freedom from guilt, total hedonism taking over as he demands thickly, "Do that again."

 

His hands leave Ford's gut for now, and he readies another cupcake--sensing that Ford wants a little force added to this delightful little display of hedonism, Stan grabs him under the chin with one hand and pries his mouth open with his fingers and without any warning it's coming, he shoves the next cupcake practically down his throat and clamps his mouth shut. **"Eat it."** He commands in a growling voice.

 

Ford whines through his nose, squirming back against Stan. His mouth is too full, he can barely breathe, and he can't open his mouth to chew with Stan holding his jaw shut, so he just gulps helplessly at the cake, choking it down almost completely whole. Stan can hear the thick, wet swallows as they go down, watches as his throat bulges out from the effort to get it down, and Ford could swear he could _see_ his stomach grow just a fraction at the sudden addition of a whole cupcake in just a couple swallows. The sensation is so intense that he very nearly shoots off in his briefs from that alone, and another sluggish dribble of pre leaks out of his cock, oozing through the soaked fabric and down the line of his cock through the cloth. His belly gives a plaintive squeak, begging for mercy.

 

"Oh I've seen that look before." The gravel in Stan's guts rumbles deep against Ford's back as he leans back to grab the entire platter of cupcakes, setting them instead on the arm of the chair so he can reach them more quickly. There's just under ten remaining, and he's all too willing to feed them to Ford, whole and he can see and hear by his brother's reactions that he's right there with him. "You want me to stuff these down your throat. . . lucky for you, I like torturin' ya, so you better stretch that jaw, Precious."

 

The next cupcake, he doesn't even peel the paper off--he just mashes the soft cakes into Ford's mouth and lets him work out how to scrape it off the foil with his teeth and tongue. A hard pulse below Stan's belt makes him groan right out loud, watching the display of his brother's tongue flicking out to catch crumbs and try desperately to clean his face.

 

Ford battles the cupcake to get it down, trying to avoid missing as much as possible, and though his stomach aches with fullness, he still takes great heaving swallows to send it down. He shivers against Stan, the usual self-consciousness that would come from eating so messily absent entirely. There's eight of them left, and his belly is absolutely packed tight, hard and round and heavy, the entire mass moving as one when he takes deep panting breaths through his nose between swallows. He lifts the jug again to wash it down, the remaining liquid inside sloshing around as he tips it to his mouth for a few deep gulps, swallowing air in the process that he then belches back up, the noise wet and thick in his throat. He grinds his hips back with purpose now, taking deep ragged inhales while he can.

 

"You're so close to bein' done . . . just a few more now. Think you can keep swallowin' em down? Ya know what, I'm not askin' anymore, open up." Risking sticky fingers, Stan pries his mouth open and shoves another cupcake inside. He's met with a low, satisfied gurgle in the back of Ford's throat, his stomach groaning in protest as another cupcake is forced into his mouth. He chews thickly, the sticky smack of his teeth grinding a mouthful of cake into paste is enough to get Stan breathing hard, panting and rutting his cock against Ford's ass.

 

When the glob of cake is swallowed down, barely chewed, Stan's all too happy to shove another one down his throat, chastising him in a growling tone about being a filthy, greedy little pig--and he loves the way Ford's cheeks light up, the little groans of pleasure that issue from him as he ruts upward into the air, his clothed cock jabbing uselessly at the air. Stan lets his hand fall back to his brother's gut, running it over the huge bump that sits heavy and high on his hips--his abs are bowed out, where Stanley might have room to spread, all of that cake sits hard as a stone in Stanford's solid core, aching and gurgling as he tries to digest nearly thirty cupcakes and most of a gallon of milk.

 

When there's only five left, twenty-five cupcakes crammed into the tight space behind Ford's solid stomach, Ford finds himself hitting a wall. The last five cakes look impossible to get down, even with the milk sloshing shallowly in the jug.

 

"I can't," he gasps, but he still doesn't use the safeword. "I'm too full."

 

Stan doesn't even say anything, he just swings up out of the chair, which forces Ford onto his back and he falls into the chair with a soft oof. Stan's standing over him then, kicking the ottoman out of the way and dragging his brother up by the front of his stupid turtleneck, shoving him back into the seat of the chair-- then, propping a foot in the chair, Stan grabs another cupcake and pries Ford's mouth open. He shoves it against his teeth and tongue, cramming as much as will fit and then some, pushing until the whole cupcake is rammed right against the back of his throat, then he switches positions and holds Ford by the throat, pinning him back against the chair and commands; **"Swallow it."**

 

Ford chokes, gagging on the cake as it's crammed into the back of his throat, and his cock surges up against his briefs. He moans thickly and struggles to swallow past the tight grip on his throat. His head swims from lack of oxygen, and he nearly fails to get it down, but when the bulge of the cupcake passes Stan's hand in one big, painful knot and travels swiftly down into his overpacked gut, the stab of overfullness that hits him fires a cramp down into his pelvis floor-- and just like that, he shoots off.

 

Wordless, choked by the hand on his throat, Ford's mouth drops open, shiny and slack and his thighs shake apart as he comes completely untouched, taken apart by the pleasure alone of his debauchery. His hips thrust up into nothing and his eyes scrunch closed as the orgasm lingers in his system for what feels like ages, prolonged by the dizziness from being choked half to death as he white-knuckles the arm rests.

 

Stan watches him wordlessly as a steady stream of cum coats the front of his slacks, his hips bucking weakly against the sensations, and even still Stan chokes another cake down his throat while his mouth hangs open–and Ford swallows it obediently, he has no other choice; in a few quick gulps it passes through his aching throat and falls heavy and wet into his overpacked stlomach. Aching himself, Stan unzips his jeans as Ford works on the next cake, and slides his cock out of his jeans–it hangs heavy and taunting between his legs, too heavy with its own weight to stand fully erect; occasioanlly he paws at himself, but his focus is on getting the last three cupcakes down Ford’s throat.

 

“Agh Sixer, you’re so close–just a few more and you’ll have stuffed this whole platter in there.” He touches that arcing belly with one hand, and brings another cupcake to Ford’s lips–the first of the last three–but just as it’s looking like he’s going to give him the option to take a bite, Stan shoves it into his gullet and forces it to the very back of his throat with his fingers shoved completely into Ford’s mouth, massaging the cake into his throat, his cock aching at the helpless gurgle in his brother’s maw.

 

Ford is entirely on autopilot, swallowing thickly, belching up the air stuffed down his throat whenever he can. His cock goes half-soft in his slacks, but the pleasure throbbing through him is so intense that he doesn't go completely soft, he can't possibly. His hips thrust up into nothing, his stomach _burns_ with pleasure and throbs with fullness, but still he swallows. He'd swallow Stan's _fingers,_ if he could, and he does, gulping wetly at them as they stuff down the back of his throat, like he's trying to swallow his brother's hand whole. His hands tighten in the arm rests of the chair, creaking in the fabric with how tightly he grips them, whining through his nose on every exhale whenever he can spare a moment for a breath.

 

"God Stanford . . . agh --" Stan has to steel himself, both hands pressed against the stuffed, aching sides of his brother's gut, rubbing out the aches, but at this point it's probably moot. His own need for release is throbbing like a drum between his legs, but they've got two more yet to go, and even then he'll want to give Ford a little break before they do _anything_ he really wants it to sink in for him, just how far he's gone. Stan shoves the next cupcake down like the other, repeating the motions almost mechanically. Ford's tongue flickers against and between his fingers, licking them clean of cake crumbs and icing, his throat working to swallow the cupcake whole, gullet cramping and groaning around the new addition. He's breathing hard now too, Stanley.

 

Eager to watch the last cupcake slide down Ford's throat and seal the deal. Unwrapping it, he takes his time, almost reverent in the way he peels back the foil and he looks down at Ford, who is gazing unseeing up at him through cloudy blue eyes, his stuffed belly rising and falling heavily with each puffing breath. "Last one, Stanford . . ." he growls, holding it aloft like the final prize of a game that Ford is definitely winning; and he doesn't ask if he's ready, he doesn't need to.

 

The nearly imperceptible nod that his brother gives is indication enough, and Stan shoves it down his throat like all the others, crouched over him like some horrible, hulking beast, forcing it down his throat, his cock dripping onto his brother's belly; Ford white-knuckles the chair, his legs twitching up, his whole back arching and throat gurgling around the mouthful theatrically.

 

Tear-filled eyes open and stare worshipfully up at his brother, before his gaze drops down to Stan's cock. His eyes go hazy with lust, and before he swallows the cupcake at the back of his throat, he tugs Stan forward by his hips, angling his head forward to slide the heavy, thick head across his tongue until it mashes against the soft cake crammed into his windpipe, wet eyes rolling up to look at Stan with an expression full of heat and challenge.

 

"Agh . . . Stanford, you nasty boy." Stan groans, he drops to a knee, so he's kneeling over his brother, and he grabs his cock by the thick shaft and watches him for a few heartbeats. "You really want this cock? It's ready for ya, babe--here it comes." The noise Stan makes is sinful as he slides his cock into Ford's mouth--he can feel the stretch of his lips, his aching jaw popping to take him, all of him--he cups the back of his head, knowing Ford doesn't want it gentle, not now, after everything. With his head in hand, Stan snaps his hips into his mouth, fucking him mercilessly.

 

The cake practically disintegrates with each thrust, washed down Ford's throat with every gush and drizzle of precome from Stan's cock--and every motion pounds it deeper down his throat, the tip of his cock sliding well past Ford's tongue, slamming into the back of his throat with brutal force. "Agh yeah, you want that cum, Stanford? You're gonna get it." Stan growls, his hips grind against Ford's lips, the heavy, musky scent of his sweat heavy in his nose. "You fuckin' slut . . . even after all that food you're still . . . cravin' this cock. Well you're gonna get more than you bargained for, sweetheart. You're gonna take it all."

 

Ford's completely insensate. His eyes roll back and his jaw goes slack, and he barely notices the ache as he instinctively swallows down the last cake just to clear his throat enough to take ragged breaths whenever he can. Lazy, fucked-stupid hands roam over his own gut, feeling how hard it is, how firm the stretched skin has become, pulled taut like a drum over his engorged stomach, arching off his body in a hard line. He swallows around Stan's cock, his throat still sticky with cake and icing, and his eyes roll up to look at Stan through his lashes, peaked and stuck together with tears. He looks absolutely reverent, dropped to the absolute basest level of his subspace. When he gets like this he's barely a person, he exists only to serve, only to please and to _feel._ It's the lowest he can possibly get, and the most completely blissed-out, his head so stuffed full of fluff that there isn't any room for a single thought. Not a single calculation or worry or memory or definition-- just endless, comfortable cotton between his ears.

 

Stan used to worry--a long time ago, when Ford would go quiet like that, he would worry endlessly about his well being, until he figured out that when he drops like that, he's in Stan's full trust. It's a bit of pressure, to look after him and make sure he doesn't push himself _too far_ but that's his job in this dynamic, and he's proud to wear the badge. He fucks into his open mouth, cock ramrod hard and aching for release that he's not going to get from Ford's slack jaw, but he relishes in just a few more thrusts before he pulls out and angles Ford's mouth, prying it open with ease so his lulling tongue is visible--then Stanley spits in his hand and drops down a little lower, his hand flying over his cock.

 

"I'm gonna give you somethin' else to swallow . . ." He lets his hand trail over one of his soft pecs, up under his tee shirt, pinching a nipple firm between thumb and forefinger, his hand slapping lewdly on each downward stroke, loud in the quiet room. "Stanford . . . agh God, here it comes." Just a few more fisted strokes, and he comes loudly, white jets coating Stanford's open mouth, drizzling onto his tongue in thick ropes. Stan's whole body goes rigid and he has to brace himself on the chair as he milks himself for all he's worth, squeezing every last drop of cum he has into Ford's mouth.

 

Ford flinches slightly in surprise at the force of the first jet when it hits his tongue, but then he accepts the rest gladly, letting it pool in his open mouth. His eyes are misty and worshipful as he watches Stan come, and when the last drop finally joins the rest in his mouth, his angles his head so Stan can watch his still-open mouth, keeping his jaw wide and slack and instead just tilting his tongue back and swallowing thickly, the entire load slipping down his throat while Stan watches.

 

And then, voice sticky, he wheezes, "Milk," indicating the jug with only about an inch of liquid left inside.

 

Stan's more gentle now, as he tips the milk into Ford's mouth. The thick liquid slides down with the rest of his feast, cutting through the heady flavors clinging to his mouth, and washing his tastebuds of the bitter taste of Stan's load. It's more than a mouthful, but Ford's throat bobs with practiced swallows until the jug is drained and thoroughly empty. He discards the jug, and sets the plate aside, stuffing himself back into his jeans and maneuvers around behind Ford once more, cradling him softly against his chest, one big hand making wide, warm circles over his stuffed gut--and he leans in to kiss him against the corner of his mouth, softly whispering to him. "You did it, Stanford . . . I'm so proud of you."

 

"Full..." Ford gurgles, laying his head tiredly against Stan's shoulder as he takes quick, shallow breaths. He can hardly breathe, his stomach is so full, taking up most of the room in his body, pressing down against everything-- his bladder, his lungs, even his prostate feels a dull, throbbing pressure whenever he shifts his hips he's so completely _stuffed._ Stan's hands feel so good on his aching belly that he can't even think. They're so big and warm, tracing over the glutted curve of his stomach, jutting off his body hard and perfectly round from top to bottom. His cock gives a twitch of pleasure in his soaked briefs and his hips roll up into nothing, begging for contact, for pressure, for relief.

 

"You need me to take care of you . . ." Stan says, it's not really a question, but he wants Ford to know he's here for him, ready and willing. Left hand making wide, sweeping circles over his achey tummy, Stan reaches down the line of his body, and frees Stanford's cock from his briefs, and when he spies it, hard and pink with need, he gives a soft groan under his breath. Slipping his hand around Ford's thick cock, he lets his fingers move in long, purposeful motions, not jerking him off as much as _milking_ him from top to bottom, and back up again, the glide slick with Ford's precome and the thick, creamy load from when he'd come the first time. "Have I ever told ya how much I love your cock?" Stan purrs against his ear, his hand's still making circuits on his tummy. "I love every part of you, Stanford--every part."

 

Ford is so oversensitive that the wet, hard glide of Stan's hand over his cock has him squirming, writhing back against him like he's trying to get away from the overwhelming sensation. He whines thickly in his throat, his stomach churning noisily as he rocks his hips up into his brother's touch. "Stanley..." he gurgles, arching his back and hiccupping shallowly, one hand rising up to grip the back of Stan's neck, tipping his head back over his shoulder. "Oh my god..."

 

Stan kisses down his neck, keeping his strokes long and purposeful, the glide of his fingers noisy and wet in the quiet room. Watching Ford come undone is his reward for all his hard work, and doubly, Ford's reward for pushing through and finishing all those cupcakes. "Come for me, Sixer . . . c'mon." His voice shakes Stanford all the way down to his toes. Stan's hand twists up on each stroke so his palm can work over the head of his cock, thumb kneading and stroking the sensitive skin of his pisshole before his plunges his palm back down and strokes the shaft. "Just let go--I've got you. I'm right here."

 

As far as orgasms go, this one is gentle-- but powerful. His thighs spread and hook over Stan's knees, his ass lifting right off the seat as his back arches and his legs clench, and his cock gives a few weak spurts over his belly. His mouth drops open and his eyes clamp shut, brows furrowing together-- but he doesn't make a sound other than one soft, overwrought squeak.

 

Stan whispers soft words of encouragement through it all, continually jerking him through the orgasm, until Ford goes limp as a noodle in his arms, his whole body relaxing. He's spent in more ways than one, and it's all Stan can do to gather him close and whisper softly to him. "You did so good." Taking Ford's glasses from him, he sets them aside, so he can truly relax and nuzzle into him. "I'm proud of you."

 

Ford sags into his brother's body, comfortable and heavy and lazy, and only whimpers when cramps shoot through his overstuffed belly. His pelvic floor does a little flip and his prick leaks against his thigh again, oozing slowly. His breathing is quick and shallow, his belly bouncing as one huge dome. "Bed..." he mumbles, turning his face to press it into Stan's neck. "Please... wanna lay down..."

 

"Don't need to settle a little? Alright." Stan is careful jostling him then, but he gets Ford easily into his arms and carries him through to their room, leaving the mess in the living room for now--his focus is getting his brother cleaned up and cozy.

 

When they get back to the bedroom, he lays Ford on the bed, and strips off his soaked boxers and slacks, freeing and returns shortly with a warm, wet wash cloth which he uses to clean up all the little stains and sticky bits; and once Ford is cleaned up, he shucks his sweater and helps him into a clean, fresh pair of briefs. Stan's only gone for a little bit after that, cleaning up any evidence of what they'd done, in case the kids get home.

 

Dinner's still sitting forelorn on the stove, but they'll figure out at least that _something_ happened between their Grunkles when they find them passed out together in the bedroom. When he returns, Stan makes sure Ford is tucked up nice and warm in the blanket before he crawls in after him, and wraps his body around him, letting his hand trail lazily, with no real direction, over the stuffed dome of his belly, and he just kisses him and whispers to him while Ford drifts in and out of consciousness.

 


End file.
